CHAPTER XXX
Now some of you who read will think her death was just, because she was nota moral woman. But others will hold with Paul she was the noblest lady whoever wore a crown. And in all cases she is beyond our puny reasonings.
But her work in Paul's heart still lives, and will live to the end of hislife. Although for long months after the agony of that June day, nothingbut hate and passion and misery had the ruling of him.
He could not bear his kind. His father and Captain Grigsby had left theyacht to him and let him cruise alone. But who can know of the hideous,ghastly hours that Paul spent then, ever obsessed with this one bitterthought? Why had he not gone back? Why had he not gone back when thatimpulse had seized him? Why had Vasili, and not he, had the satisfaction ofkilling this vile slayer of his Queen?
Even the remembrance of his child did not rouse him. It was safe with theGrand Duke Peter--a king at four months old! But what of sons, or kings orcountries--nothing could make up for the loss of his Queen! And to thinkthat she had died to save him! Save him from what? A brush with threebesotted drunkards, whom it would have been great joy to kill!
There were moments when Paul went mad with passion, and lay and writhed inhis berth. So long months passed, and at last he dominated himself enoughto come back to his home.
And if the Lady Henrietta had exclaimed that he appeared ill before on hisreturn, she was dumb now with sorrow at the change. For Paul had lookedupon Medusa's head of horror, and, as well as his heart, his face seemedturned to stone. He was gentle with his mother, and let her caress him asmuch as she would, but nothing any one could say could move him--evenPike's joyous greeting.
The whole of God's world was his enemy--for was he not alone there, robbedof his mate? Presently the reaction from this violence came, and anintense apathy set in. A saltless, tasteless existence. What was Parliamentto him? What was his country or his nation? or even his home? Only thehunting when it came gave him some relief, and then if the run were fastenough, or the jumps prodigiously high, or his horses sufficiently fresh tobe difficult, his blood ran again for a brief space. But beyond this lifewas hell, and often he was tempted to use that little pistol of Dmitry's,and end it, and sleep. Only the inherent manly English spirit in him, deepdown somewhere, prevented him.
All this time his father grieved and grieved, and the Lady Henrietta spenthours in tears and prayer. Sir Charles had told her their son had met witha great sorrow, and they must bow their heads and leave him in peace, sothere were no more gay young parties at Verdayne Place, and gone for everwere the visions of the grandchildren. Only Mark Grigsby was a constantvisitor, but then--he knew.
Thus a year passed away, and Paul left on a voyage round the world. AnEnglishman's stern duty to be a man at all costs was calling him atlast--bidding him in change of scene to try and overcome the paralysingdominion of his grief. But as far as that went the experiment provedfutile. If moments came when circumstances did divert him, such as one ortwo great storms he happened to come across, and one or two excitingsituations--still, when things were fair and peaceful, back would rush theever-living ache. That passionate void and loss for which there seems noremedy.
Gentle, pleasant women longed to lavish worship upon him, and Paul talkedand was polite, but all their sweetness touched him no more than summerripples stir the bottom of a lake. He seemed impervious to any humaninfluence, though when the look of a mountain or the colour of beech-treeswould remind him of the Buergenstock anguish as fresh as ever stabbed hisheart. Yet all this while, unknown to himself, his faculties weredeveloping. He read deeply. He had unconsciously grown to apply hisdarling's lucid reasoning to every detail of his judgment of life. It wasas if it had before been written in cypher for him, and she had now givenhim the key. His mind was untiring in its efforts to master subjects, ashis splendid physique seemed tireless in all manner of sport.
Thus he saw the world and its peoples, and was an honoured guest among thegreat ones of the earth. But the hardness of adamant was in him. He had nobeliefs--no ambitions. He dissected everything with all the pitilesscertainty of a surgeon's cold knife. And if his life contained an aim atall, it was to get through with it and find oblivion in eternal sleep.
Thoughts of his little son would sometimes come to him, but when they didhe thrust them back, and shut his heart up in a casing of ice.
To feel--was to suffer! That perhaps was his only creed; that and a blind,sullen rage against fate. This was the lesson his suffering had taught him,and they were weary years before he knew another side.
The first time he saw a tiger in India was one of the landmarks in thehistory of his inner emotions. He had gone to shoot the beasts with awell-known Rajah, and it had chanced he came upon a magnificent creature atvery close quarters and had shot it on sight. But when it lay dead, itswonderful body gracefully moving no more, a sickening regret came overPaul. Of all things in creation none reminded him so forcibly of his lostworshipped Queen. In a flash came back to him the first day she had lain onthe skin which had been his gift. Out of the jungle her eyes seemed togleam. In his ears rang her words, "I know all your feelings and yourpassions. And now I have your skin--for the joy of my skin." Yes, she hadloved tigers, and been in sympathy with them always, and here was one whosejoy of life he had ended!
No, he could never kill one more. After this expedition for weeks he wasrestless--the incident seemed to have pierced through his carefullycultivated calm. For days and days, fresh as in the first hours of hisgrief, came an infinite sensation of pain--just hideous personal pain.
So time, and his journeys, went on. But no country and no change of scenecould dull Paul's sense of loss, and the great vast terrible finality ofall hope.
The hackneyed phrase would continually ring in his brain of--Neveragain--never again! Ah! God! it was true he would hold his belovedone--never again. And often unavailing rebellion against destiny would riseup in him, and he would almost go mad and see red once more. Then he wouldrush away from civilisation out into the wild.
But these violent emotions were always followed by a heavy, numb lethargyuntil some echo or resemblance roused him to suffering again. The scent oftuberoses caused him anguish unspeakable. One night in New York he wasobliged to leave the opera because a woman he was with wore some in herdress.
Thus, with all his strong will, there were times when he could not controlhimself or his grief.
He had been absent from England for over two years, when the news came tohim far out in America of his Uncle Hubert's death. So he had gone to jointhe world of spirits in the vast beyond! Paul did not care! His onlyfeeling was one of relief. No more fear of hearing, perhaps, some chanceidle word. But he remembered his mother had loved her handsome brother, andhe wrote a tender letter home.
Then something in the Lady Henrietta's answer touched him vaguely anddecided him to return. After all--because life was a black barren waste tohim--what right had he to dim all joy in the two who had given him being?Yes, he would go back, and try to pick up the threads anew.
There were great quiet rejoicings in his parents' hearts at their son'sthird homecoming. And like a wild beast tamed for a time to perform tricksin a circus, Paul conformed to the ordinary routine. The question of hisentering Parliament was mooted again, but this he put aside. As yet hecould face no ties. He would do his best by staying at home most of theyear--but when that call of anguish was upon him, he must be free once moreto roam.
Then hope began to bloom in the Lady Henrietta's heart as flowers afterrain. Surely this great unknown grief was passing--surely her adored onewould settle down again.